If We Had a Mile

On the walk to school, a normally shy and withdrawn little girl comes to my side. 

"Guess what?" she asks, her eyes huge. She watches me with her mittens folded together and her boots kicking the ice. 

"What?  Tell me everything," I respond (because I have a whole mile to listen and nothing to do but walk with her).  And then, I learn all about dolphins. 

Dolphins.  That was the door that let me into her heart.  I think about how--if only I had known--I might have asked about dolphins last year. 

If only I had known!  I realize that every person I meet today has a deeply held love of something.  Maybe it's dolphins or coconuts or turtles or guitar.  I want to make the kind of time and space to hear about it. 

I want to give you a whole mile today. 

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If you had a mile to talk, what would you want to talk about today? 

Waking Up to Cat Breath

This morning, my cat who looks more like a skunk wakes me up with very loud purring.  She's right in my face, purring with that horrible cat-breath.  I'm not moving, so she puts one little paw on my nose.  Purr, purr, purr. 

I pet her and lean in to figure out the source of her purring.  The purring mechanism confuses even the most intelligent of scientists; nobody can discover how a cat actually purrs.  It just seems to happen.  It's not even daylight yet, and already I'm encountering mystery.  How do you purr, little cat?

We don't know how they purr, but we hypothesize why.  I read that cats purr for three reasons:  happiness, friendship, and intention.   They purr to communicate contentment and relaxation.  They purr as a sign of offering friendship.  Finally, they purr to express a specific request or intention (feed me, love me). 

What if my communication today rose up from a deep mysterious place of good tidings?  What if my sounds offered to the world around me today, even from daybreak, expressed happiness, friendship, and clear, good intentions?

Consider the mysterious cat.  I approach you purring, pouring out happiness, friendship, and good intention.

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Just so dogs don't feel left out today (hello, Roberta!), I wanted to leave you with the quote, "Wag more, bark less."  For cats, it's "purr more, hiss less."  I'm asking God to help me turn from hiss to purr today. 

"The Best Things in Life Aren't Things"

My friend delivers me a little card with the quote, "the best things in life aren't things," from journalist Art Buchwald.

I want to remember that.

Love, friendship, ideas, creativity, conversations.  These things I can't hold in my hand.  

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Journal:  When you think about your "best things" in life, are they objects you've purchased? 

How to Feed a Friendship

This morning, a mother mentions that she's teaching her child how to "feed a friendship" in order for it to grow.

I think of that tiny seed of friendship--that little spark between people--that makes the heart cry out:  "I like you!  I want to spend time with you!  We are great together!"

The seed takes root, and then it needs to grow. 

You can feed a friendship in so many ways. I think of how children intuitively build friendships:  spending time together, exchanging notes and little gifts, talking on the phone, narrating experiences, and wanting to share clothes and dolls.  Some children build forts together, go exploring in the woods, or devise great adventures. At this age, friendship is most important.  When do we stop needing our friends?  Never.  I watch these children, and I remember to feed my friendships.

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Journal:  What are some ways to feed a friendship?

Verb of the Week

This morning, I talk to a student about the verb "rehabilitate."  It means to restore to normal, to recover, to reestablish good working order.  In terms of physical therapy, this verb represents hope.

Physical therapists know that rehabilitation happens in the context of a whole network of support:  individual, family, and community.  You aren't alone in the journey towards restoration.   It takes time, and we are all in this together. 

I think about this today because of the post-travel anxiety and moodiness I experience!  Nothing feels normal around here.  I'm rehabilitating--even still--from all those years of depression and anxiety.  Good days, bad days, hopeful days, hopeless days.

I'm learning not to fear the bad days anymore.  There's a true self that emerges when you let even the darkness out. 

It helps that my neighbors tell me that their friendship isn't dependent on my good, stable moods. 

Living with flair means we see life as a rehabilitation process.   As communities, we journey together patiently and offer one another the deepest, most beautiful hope.  Good days, bad days.  We are all in this together.

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Journal:  Are you rehabilitating, too? 

Who Needs Flowers?

A friend arrives at my apartment with a gift for me.  It's a huge bouquet of sunflowers.  

I place them in a plastic cup (all I had!).  No matter where I am in the apartment, I can peek around any corner and find them.  Such a difference they make!  Such warmth and happiness from flowers! 

Living with flair means bringing flowers into the house.  It means giving them, too.

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Journal:  Who needs some flowers delivered today?

My Solution to Not Wanting to Exercise

This morning, my new friend walks me to the gym (it takes us 25 minutes).  Then, she pushes the elliptical machine time so that we exercise for 30 minutes.  Then, she drags me up the stairs to do arm weights (she shows me how).  Then, just when I'm about to suggest that we stop and get very fattening and delicious coffee drinks, she says, "Now we do push-ups." 

Then we walk home for another 25 minutes.  

It feels like five minutes because I'm with my new friend. We talk about everything. 

She's getting me out of bed tomorrow. 

Living with flair means if you don't want to do something, you find an enthusiastic friend to do it with you.  Enthusiastic friends make everything better.  Even exercise.  I'll report my fitness achievements at the end of the summer!

_________________
Journal:  What enthusiastic contribution can I make to a friend's life?  What would my friends say I'm enthusiastic about? 

This Looks Like You

My friend (who really is so close she's like my sister) stops by this morning before the walk to school and hands me a beautiful new purse.

"This looks like you," she says.

But it's not my birthday!  It's not Christmas!

I immediately put it on my shoulder.  Two neighbors announce they have "purse envy." Nobody has ever said that to me before.  I'm not the kind of girl who goes shopping for purses.   I still use the brown purse my father bought me for my 16th birthday.  Yes, my handbags are over 20 years old. 

But not anymore.  I have a new bright and whimsical purse.  I have a new purse because I have a friend who gives me things that "look like me."

Living with flair means being that kind of friend.  I want to be a better gift giver.  I want to find little treasures that could delight someone the way I was this morning at 8:00 AM. 

_____________________
Journal:  When was the last time you gave a gift to someone?

Listen to This Story

Vernal Pond in PA

Today, I had time to listen to different folks tell me a story.

I ask a neighbor to tell me the story about how she moved from one county to another.

I ask a complete stranger to tell me the story of how she transferred from one college to another.

Both women said, "It's a long story."

I said, "I have time."

I decide I want to have the time in my life to listen to long stories.

I'm teaching memoir writing this month for the college seniors. They have incredible and beautiful stories deep inside that nobody has yet asked them to tell.

I wonder how many people we encounter each day who have incredible and beautiful stories deep inside.

They are in there, hidden away like a secret vernal pond.

Living with flair means I encourage others to tell the story inside of them.  It's been an amazing day because I've lived the adventure of listening.

And here's the picture of me listening to the sound of snow falling on the vernal pond.  Thank you, Jennifer, for being part of my story.


(photo taken today by Jennifer Kelly and her fancy phone)
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Journal:  What if I asked this person to tell me his or her story?

When Your Scars Leak (Warning: Graphic Image of a Cat's Infected, Although Missing, Eye)

Yesterday, my daughter cries out that Jack's scar is leaking. 

Remember Jack?  Our one-eyed cat, over this past year, seemed fully recovered from the day we rescued him:  he learned to purr again; he discovered his lost meow; he started caring for other cats; then he learned to stand up for himself against the other cats; and finally, he learned how to knead the bed like normal kitties do.

He was fully alive, fully cat. 

We hardly notice the scar anymore.  It's only when other folks come over and comment that we remember.

Infected Eye Wound

But the wound where his eye once was becomes infected.  The vet says the infection is so great, so deep, that it has to burst out of the scar. 

We hold Jack all evening.  We care for the infection, treat it with medicine, and give special attention to him. 

I remember that sometimes wounds leak.  Even after a year of healing, the old scar can ooze.  Just because we don't notice the wound, one day, it bursts back into our lives and threatens us with that discouraging reminder.

But we aren't discouraged.  We go back to the basics.  We hold him, love him, and treat him.  We aren't shocked or repulsed.  It's part of his journey, and we're right here with him. 

Living with flair means I'm in this with you.  Even when the old wounds leak out, we go back to the basics, take care of one another, and let the healing begin again. 




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Journey:  When old wounds leak, how can I keep from being discouraged?

You Don't Bug Me

This morning, a little boy who walks with me to school every day hands me a Valentine.  He's not a big talker, and he delivers it to me while looking at his shoes.

I open it up, and I see a picture of a giant bug.  It says, "You don't bug me."

I'm glad I don't bug him.  And, as a writing instructor, I have to admit I love the wordplay. 

I walk beside him, not saying even one word.  He doesn't like to talk, and I realize I don't have to be talking to know we're friends. 

Living with flair means I accept the slightest gestures of love, receive them fully, and walk beside my friends on their terms.  If that means silence, then I'll do it.

_________________
Journal:  What does it mean to love a person "on their terms" today?


PS--Here are two photos from my photo shoot which only happened because my friend stood knee-deep in snow with that reflector shade.

When You Can't Settle For Less

I do not believe my friend when she says that New Jersey bagels--from her neighborhood-- are the best in the world.  She calls me from New Jersey and tells me all about her coffee and New Jersey bagel and continues trash-talking all the other bagels in the world. 

I hear she's traveling back to my neighborhood this morning, so I throw out a challenge.  I kindly ask her to bring me home some of these mythic bagels so I can see what all the hoopla is about. 

Two minutes ago, I walk into my kitchen and find a bag of New Jersey bagels (she sneaks them inside!).  She delivers them the same day they were made. 

I have to admit they do look rather yummy.  

New Jersey Bagel

Doubtful, I tear into the first one.

I stop everything.  I call my husband and children into the kitchen to taste these bagels.  I even have to take a picture.   

I'll never be able to settle for less now that I know the real thing exists out there in New Jersey.   And I'll expect more now that I know how good they could be. 

It's a good lesson for me to remember:  I won't settle for less when I encounter the best there is.  And true friends remind you of the difference between the good and the great.  True friends help you experience the more that life can be. 


_____________________
Journal:  Where am I settling for less than great? 

Going to the Bottom of the Well

Just this week, a dear friend of mine describes herself as  "holding on to the edge for dear life so she doesn't fall to the bottom of the well."

You grip the well's ledge, keep your chin up, and refuse to fall. 

It's a haunting image of a life lived in fear of surrender.  My tight grip on the ledge represents a picture of what I cannot face on the road to personal transformation, freedom, and joy.   I'm afraid of what's down there if I journey deeper into places of brokenness.  Can't I just stay up here, white knuckled, with my jaw clenched, fighting? 

All day, I consider how I need to let go of my tight grip on my life, trying to hold everything together in that desperate and clenched way that drains out the life and hope. 

A friend looks her straight between the eyes and says, "You need to let go and fall to the bottom of the well."  That's the way to begin to heal. 

But what happens when she lets go?  What fearful thing awaits?  She cannot do this alone. 

Another friend says, "I'll fall to the bottom with you."

And another, days later, adds:  "God is at the bottom of the well." 

We release our grip, surrender to the work of healing God wants in our lives, and look around.  We aren't alone:  Friends journey down into the darkness with us, and God himself embraces us at the moment we let go. 


(Photograph of a well in Argentina, Creative Commons)

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Journal:

Today, I remember a quote from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke:  "Works of art always spring from those who have faced the danger, gone to the very end of an experience, to the point beyond which no human being can go. The further one dares to go, the more decent, the more personal, the more unique a life becomes."  

What danger do I need to face? 

The Only Way to Make It

The driveway and sidewalks--every path we try--stretches out black and shiny, smooth as glass, and treacherous.  Ten of us set out for school, and by the time we reach the corner, we've fallen down six times (some of us twice). 

The danger is real, and I'm nervous.  

"Hold on to me!" I cry to the little ones.  We find another mitten to grab or another arm to link through, and we suddenly stabilize.  When one starts to slide and fall, the others catch him, find a new balance, and press on.

Instead of falling on our backs, our sliding on ice resembles smooth acrobatics:  our legs shoot out from under us, but then someone has our back and we bend forward and backward.  Arms flail and clutch, yet we do not fall. 

Every child laughs.  Even I can't help but enjoy this treachery.  It's now an adventure, a pleasure.  

I think about the strength in numbers.  I think about finding others to balance us as we flail and clutch the air.  Holding hands and shoulders, we approach the crossing guard who warns us of an upcoming stretch of ice to avoid.  We walk a wide circle around it, arm in arm. 

Safe at school, I recall what it takes to get here.  The danger was real, but we overcame together.   Nobody can make it alone. 



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Journal:  With whom do I lock arms on my journey?  What dangers am I facing that friends can help me battle? 

Beyond Math and Music: Encouraging Excellence in Friendship

Last night, a friend arrives for a sleepover.  She has a green envelope that she presents to my daughter.  It's a homemade "friendship award."   She awards it to my daughter for "always understanding her."  

I nearly burst into tears.  I run and get the tape and slap that thing to the wall where we will all look at it for as long as the tape holds.  Just last week, several girls at school received a friendship award as a trait of good citizenship.  My daughter wasn't called up to receive that award, and she cried outside of the school.

The sleepover friend wanted to set the record straight. 

As I watch the two little girls celebrate their true friendship, I realize what I so strongly react to in all the articles circulating about parenting and the need to force math drills, excellence in piano, and various other versions of academic success.  The philosophy of parenting that prizes academic success above all else misses the one component of life that makes all that success worth it:  friendship. 

So I'll continue to host slumber parties, play dates, dance parties, and spontaneous trips to the movie theater.  I'll continue to put the homework aside for an afternoon so my daughter and her friends can go sledding, play dolls, and paint their fingernails.  I'll display cupcakes instead of math flashcards.  I'll let her blast music in the bedroom instead of shaming her into another piano drill.

If I raise a daughter who wins every prize in school, it won't mean a thing without friends. 

I'm so thankful for my friends.  Happiness comes from sharing our lives with one another.   The day I defended my dissertation to earn my Ph.D., I felt profoundly empty.  I'll never forget leaving that exam room, after 5 years of work, and wondering what it was all for. What mattered so much more were the friends waiting with flowers down the hall.

I had a friend who received the highest promotion in her job track at an Ivy League school.  She called me in tears because at the moment she received the news, she realized she had no one to tell. 

I don't want my children to excel and have no one to tell.  It won't be worth it.  They might become math geniuses, but if they don't know the value of friendship and living in community, their intelligence might be directed towards selfish or even harmful ends.  Without friends, we lose our way.  Living with flair means I fill my wall with as many friendship awards as math scores.


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Journal:   How will I know I'm excelling in the art of friendship?  What are the marks of friendship excellence?

The Worst Gift-Giver

I'm a horrible gift-giver.  It takes me forever to think about what would delight another person, and so I abandon the task altogether.   Other folks present beautiful, timely, unexpected gifts to their friends just because they saw something and thought to themselves, "My friend would love this." 

I wish I were a better gift-giver!  I think of the kinds of "good gifts" God rains down--often beautiful, timely, and unexpected blessings.  I want to learn how to reflect that goodness to others. 

Yesterday, a former student of mine asks if I'll meet her on campus because she has a little gift for me.  Nothing special, she tells me.

When she arrives with some other students, she pushes across the table a jar of Coconut Satin and Silk Lotion from a little company called Soaps and Such out in Auburn, New York.  Over her holiday break, she figured out how to find some for me. 

"It's the smell you always commented on--the lotion smell you said you loved," she says, smiling. "You can't buy it anywhere but from this one place.  It's homemade."  

I open the jar and smell the coconut lotion that transports me to a tropical paradise. We all pass it around and lather our hands with it.

Last year, as I walked by this student's desk to return her papers, I would linger and say, "What is that smell?  It smells just like coconut!  I wish I smelled like that all day."

I'd be writing on the chalkboard, and I'd start craving coconut cake.   

It was her Coconut Satin and Silk Lotion.

That was six months ago.  

The student observes the tiniest detail and remembers.   It wasn't a particularly expensive gift.  It wasn't large or even wrapped.  But it changed my whole day. 

These sorts of gifts challenge me to observe and remember so I can bless others.  I don't know what I loved more:  the gift or the fact that she remembered I like the smell of coconut.

Living with flair means I observe, remember, and bless others with tiny gifts. 


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Journal Question:   Sometimes I experience little blessings all day that show me God is watching and knows all the things I love.  As I learn to reflect God's love, am I watching closely what tiny, simple things others love so I might give a gift to bless them?

But We Didn't

Last night, our doorbell rings at 10:00 PM.  On our front porch, a woman in a gray sweater, sweat pants, and flip flops stands shivering.  We open the door, and she immediately apologizes.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she says.  "I'm house sitting for my parents while they travel.  I went into the garage to get something and the door to the house closed and locked behind me!  I'm locked out of my house!"

We invite this stranger into the warm living room.  Sitting by our Christmas tree, we call the locksmith.  But the locksmith can't verify her identity, so we have to call the police to meet this woman at her own parent's house to unlock the doors.  She waits on the couch until all the right folks arrive in her driveway to help her.

Meanwhile, I have no choice but to offer a beverage and make conversation.  I'm in my pajamas, and I sit cross-legged on the couch. 

We sit there, staring at one another.  I start to ask questions.

I discover wonderful things.  I hear about a screenplay she's writing, a novel she's selling, and her life in New York.  I learn about her theories of dating.  I learn about her degree in linguistics.  I learn about her sister on the West Coast. 

This stranger in flip flops is funny, vibrant, and kind.  I start to really like her.  I start to want to be her life long friend.

When it's all over, I give her a huge hug like we've been friends forever.

She's coming back today to leave her card. 

Friendship can enter your life at any time.  A stranger locked out of her house, shivering on your doorstep, might just become a dear friend.  You never know. 

We could have turned her away.  We could have hidden in the bedroom and not even answered the door.

But we didn't.

What We Think and Do Not Say

Yesterday, I write an unusual email to a friend who lives in a different part of the country.  We rarely talk on the phone.  We haven't seen each other for years.  But this week, I think about her several times for interesting reasons.  So I write a numbered list of all the times her face came to mind. 

She's the friend who introduced me to the joy of cooking on a baking stone, and whenever I bring it out, I think about her.

I think of her when I order elaborate coffee drinks because we did that together years ago.

I think about her when I see pistachios because she once told me about a delicious recipe involving a pistachio crust.

Random things.  Fleeting things.

But I was thinking about her.  And it occurs to me to tell her this.   How would she know otherwise? 

Later, she emails me back to tell me she printed out my list and put it in her journal.   I think about that little list--baking stones, coffee, pistachios--that seems silly and unimportant. 

It matters so much.

Be Impressively Vulnerable

Yesterday, I admit to my dear friend that I'm not good at being vulnerable.  I'm better at listening and giving advice and pretending I have it all together.  I'm better at being cheery and funny than admitting when I'm not feeling well.  Maybe, deep down, I think that folks won't love me as much if I admit my struggles and my weaknesses.

I spent five years studying the emotion of shame.  One would think I could see through my tactics!  We hide away and protect ourselves from feeling vulnerable.  We preempt the mere possibility of feeling inferior, exposed, or judged by tucking ourselves away in protective spaces of various forms.  But my research regarding shame proves this:  when we make ourselves vulnerable, we create pathways for intimacy.  Our capacity for intimacy directly correlates to how vulnerable we are.

My cats perform dramatic displays of vulnerability.  When they roll flat on their backs and expose their tummies, they welcome affection.  Dogs enact even more impressive acts.  With incredible submission, a dog will lay down, roll over, and endanger himself by revealing an unprotected belly and throat.

In the animal world, showing the belly and offering submissive gestures signals love and trust.  What submissive gestures might I enact to signal to my friends that same love and trust?  A willingness to expose my underbelly--those weak and unpleasant things about me--might seem dangerous and shameful. But these impressive acts of vulnerability are what make friendship happen. 

Who wants a friend who can't be vulnerable?  Who wants a life shackled by the fear of shame?  Roll over, show your belly, and just see what love you find.

Can I Tuck You In?

Last night, a dear friend of mine agrees to visit my children around bedtime to read stories and "tuck them in."  It's so whimsical and comforting:  a loving friend stops by, has a bedtime snack with you, reads you your favorite book, says bedtime prayers, and leaves you sleeping soundly by 8:30 PM.  That's a great tuck-in.

The Perfect Tuck-In

I want to hire her to tuck me in.

When do we stop needing that moment at the end of the day when somebody gets us situated in a snug spot and goes through a ritual designed to transition us into dreamland?

As I'm lying on the floor listening to the bedtime stories, I recall great tuck-in moments.  My dad used to throw my sister and me over his shoulder as his "sack of potatoes" to carry us up the stairs to bed.  The sack-of-potatoes tuck-in brought me so much security and joy each night. 

Years later, I was a camp counselor presented with the challenge of tucking in 7th grade girls.  For the ten girls in my cabin at Camp Greystone, I read the Bible with a flashlight in a soft voice as they listened in their bunks.  Then, I walked around the cabin, touched heads, straightened blankets, leaned over, and whispered something simple like:  "I hope you have a great night's sleep and wonderful dreams."  I would mention something I noticed about their days--something good that happened--and I'd remind them of the great day they would have tomorrow.

I tucked them in.  

They were 13 years old.  They seemed to hate it at first.  They'd turn their face away and act like they'd already fallen asleep.  But within a week, they'd beg for the tuck-in, reminding me that I should do this and saving tidbits of joy to share with me.

Another great tuck-in memory came as I recalled the year the preschool had an auction to raise money.  One of the auction items was a tuck-in from the teacher!  She'd arrive in her cow printed pajamas and appear in your bedroom for stories.  Families fought to win that prize.  The tuck-in prize was the single highest grossing item at the auction.  

I'm older now, and there's nobody tucking me in.  And what about all my friends?  Who tucks them in?

I want to tuck my loved ones in.  I know I can't literally do this (maybe I could), but I can symbolically provide tuck-in moments.  I can make a phone call, send a text, write an email, say a prayer.   I can send out a million reminders that you're secure and safe, loved and cherished. 

I crawl into my own bed.  I make a snug spot and remind myself of these things.  I read a book to myself and say my prayers.  I'm secure.  I'm tucked in.